


Underneath the Mistletoe Last Night

by fyredancer



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Fluff, Holiday, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyredancer/pseuds/fyredancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The house lights are off and the only illumination in the room comes from the low glimmer of the Christmas tree's lights.</i>
</p><p>Tom wakes up alone the night before Christmas, and from elsewhere in the house, there comes a clatter. A Mauschen is stirring in the house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath the Mistletoe Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written on the fly for my dear gals steinsgrrl and remy_jen. Thank you so much for all that you do. ♥ And Merry Christmas to both of you fine ladies!

Tom wakes to a tapping, or a rapping; something is knocking around. He can no longer sleep until he finds the source of that noise, and he's abominably thirsty.

So he sits up and when he does, he is so drunk he's certain he can feel his head sloshing as he rolls back the heaviness of coverlet and pats around for furry dog bodies that might be an obstacle to extricating himself from the bed. He's overheated though only boxer-clad, skin flush with the warmth of alcohol and Bill's constant war over the thermometer - every time Tom lowers it a notch, Bill raises it two. Tom staggers on his way to the hall and tries to figure why it's so quiet upstairs. That clatter came from further away. His head swims and he tries to recount how much eggnog was in the rum; or is that the other way around?

He's sure of two things and it's that there was rum, for one; his teeth are thick and furry and he needs to brush them before he has a breakdown, for another; and that he's misplaced Bill somehow, because the house is too quiet. Tom begins to shuffle up the hallway on silent feet and pauses to groan. Someone has painted his toenails in alternating greens and reds, with white tips.

He knows who that someone is, and they're due for some coal. Or a spanking.

His head is clearing by the time his mouth is freshly mint-scrubbed and Tom sets forth in search of companionship, brotherly or otherwise. He's been abandoned even by his own Star, his German pointer, which implies far more interesting things afoot in house Kaulitz. As he heads for the staircase he hears it again; a bump, a rattle.

There's someone moving around in the house. It could be a dog or a roving twin but the light is on in Bill's room, as it is on those infrequent occasions when he wants some space to himself.

As Tom descends the staircase he hears music. Not the stereo, but a soft humming. It's not a German carol, so he doesn't recognize it. He's a little sloshy, still - or just plain sloshed - as he gravitates toward the music his brother is making.

There's a heap of puppies on the largest dog bed across from the couch as Tom rounds the corner for the living room. One of them looks up, thumps his tail against the floor, and they all peer at him with sleepy eyes before settling their heads back down. "Traitors," Tom mutters, because much as they love him, they won't come to bed or stay in it without Bill.

Bill is crouched on the far side of the sofa so that all Tom can see of him is a cheery red cap atop his head. The soft white bobble at the end of it wags to and fro as Bill digs around for something. The living room is strewn with boxes, as far as Tom can see, as though Bill has gotten all of the holiday trimmings out from storage and not only the winter ones. The tree that was naked at Tom's last recollection is strung up with twinkling lights that glow against the darkness of fir boughs with the softest radiance.

"You didn't wait for me," Tom says, finding his voice hoarse. He clears his throat.

Bill rises from his haunches and Tom widens his eyes. Besides the festive red cap, the only thing Bill is wearing is a pair of red boyshorts trimmed at the thighs with white fur, and a pair of knee-high candy striped socks.

"Well, somebody drank all the eggnog and had to go nap," Bill says with an idle shrug, cocking one hip out and setting white-tipped red nails to his hip. It's the black-starred hip, the sight of which always makes Tom quake inwardly much as he tries to resist.

"Oh," Tom says, "is that what happened? I thought you were trying to get me drunk enough to have your wicked way with me."

Bill snorts. "Like you need to be drunk for that."

"True," Tom allows, and takes a step toward the tree, and Bill, to take a look at what his twin has spread out all over the floor. He glances automatically for the blackout curtains to make sure they're firmly in place, though he knows Bill would never go around so casually this close to naked if they weren't.

"Get over here and help me," Bill says simply. "We've got to get the rest of the tree decorated, after all."

Tom comes around the side of the couch and sees the white-trimmed tree skirt, something that their mother sewed by hand for them years ago for the purpose of having their own tree, moving up and growing out. She'd intended to sew two, one for each of them, until Bill had told her not to bother.

"It's not like we'll have two trees," he'd told her, and she had packed away her fabric without putting up a fuss. She'd known even then, Tom suspected, that neither of them ever intended to take up residence without the other.

There are boxes of ornaments, half-spilled down cardboard sides and tangled together by their hooks. There is old tinsel, half bald on the string from years of use. There are other knickknacks, wooden trinkets and traditional glass figures, nicked from their mother's garage and squirreled away now in a corner of the twins' storage space, things that Simone has lovingly threatened to clear out of her house for years and Bill has done it for her, unwilling to part with that bit of their past.

"Can we open a present, first?" Tom asks softly, half-afraid to break the spell of silence that has fallen over their little domain. The house lights are off and the only illumination in the room comes from the low glimmer of the Christmas tree's lights.

Bill leans up against the arm of the couch and wrinkles his nose. "You know I don't like doing things out of order," he says. It's so true. They both have their routines, and Tom is usually more compulsive about it than Bill.

Tom stands beside Bill, within reach of all that creamy, too-pale skin. Some people might say Bill needs a tan; Tom loves this luminous pallor. He likes the contrast of his darker hand against Bill's white flesh.

"It's one I've had before," Tom says.

"Oh," Bill says, and discontent transforms to thoughtfulness. "And one you'll have again?"

"And again, and again," Tom confirms, stepping close to run his hands over the fabric pulled up to those little hips. It's velour, soft and velvety beneath Tom's fingertips. "Can I?" Tonight is theirs, he thinks, hazy and maybe a bit drunk, still, as the sparks from the tree lights cast Bill's face into pliable marble and shadow.

"Mm," Bill replies, and it's not quite an answer, but he angles his sharp chin and Tom looks up out of reflex.

Before Tom can fully process the sight of the green sprig and its poison-pale berries, lips are on his and arms wind around him. Bill has booby-trapped the living room; Tom could swear that wasn't there before. Tom shifts his grip from hips to ass, clasping Bill against him full-length. They sink to their knees together in one motion, mouths pressed hungrily one to the other. Tom licks at Bill's lips and tastes the remnants of rum and eggnog; wonders if Bill tastes mint on his. All the while he palms Bill's ass with both hands, cupping him into the sway of his body.

Tom pulls back far enough to see the dull twinkle of lights play over Bill's dark hair and fair skin, then with a low noise Bill is tugging him to offer up his mouth again. He lowers Bill to the red tree skirt spread over the floor and kisses him thoroughly, licking at his mouth slow and sure. Bill gasps and bites at his lips, impatient the way he gets when they're too used to traveling and grabbing their moments of togetherness few and far between, quiet as either of them can keep it.

"You don't have to be quiet," Tom says against Bill's mouth, and realizes he whispered it.

Bill breathes hotly against Tom's lips; licks and nibbles and tastes. He's a profusion for the senses, color and taste and the scent of his woodsy-honeyed cologne tangled up with the sharpness of nearby fir. "The dogs," he mumbles.

"They've heard us before," Tom says, but he knows that Bill is shy in that way. Tom whimpers, looking over Bill's shoulder at jumble of dogs tangled up on one of their cushions by the empty fireplace. They're watching; their big brown eyes are judging him.

Positively prudish. "I'll get up to let them out--"

Bill winds endless arms and legs around him. "You're not going anywhere," he says, and rubs up against Tom.

Tom nods, as though it were in question for even a second that he'll do as Bill asks. He strokes down Bill's naked upper torso and brushes against the glint of silver high on Bill's chest with the pad of one thumb. He skims along the swoops and swirls that adorn Bill's left side. He knows Bill's already plotting the next one; the where and when. He bends his head over Bill and pushes his tongue into Bill's parted mouth, chasing around for the last of the eggnog.

This time when the kiss breaks they're both panting. Bill's skin is so warm under his hands, dewed faintly with the beginnings of sweat as Tom passes his hands back and forth, stroking. Bill's legs are still tangled somewhere near the small of his back.

"What do you--" Tom begins, as Bill says at the same time, "You want to...?" They both stop and dissolve into quiet laughter. Tom sets his face to Bill's neck and presses a smile into his skin like the slow-unfurling wings of a snow angel.

"I don't have anything," Tom says, passing a hand over the velvety hot skin of Bill's belly.

"Yes, you do," Bill contradicts, reaching over Tom's hip into one of his baggy pockets, digging around until Tom moans and presses his groin closer to Bill's, sure he can feel his cock flex in its cotton imprisonment. Bill comes up, triumphant, with lube.

"Oh," Tom says, surprised. He doesn't remember being drunk enough to tip that in there with hopes for later.

"I slipped that in your pocket," Bill tells him helpfully. "I figured we'd need it later."

Tom dips his chin and rubs his mouth over Bill's wet lips. The heat rising off Bill's belly is incredible, and Tom wants to push Bill's briefs down and savor the heat lower, the one that will grip him so tight. He rears up to admire Bill, splayed out over the tree skirt like a gift just for him, lit up with the soft sparkle of the lights strung round the fir boughs.

He could say any number of things, from _I love you_ to _you're so beautiful_ and what he opts for is, "You're so smart." The words come from him hoarse and starved.

Bill wriggles beneath him and strokes one hand down the curling script along his side, hooking a thumb into his red boyshorts. "Aren't you going to unwrap me?"

Tom's mouth is dry and he's very sober, now; or perhaps not sober enough. He runs his fingers back and forth over Bill's belly, tickling fine hairs with his knuckles. Bill sighs, tips his head back, and arches up until their groins are nearly bumping.

"Yeah," Tom says, and strokes Bill's skin tenderly before peeling down those Christmas-red boyshorts.

He takes Bill's cock into his mouth first, because he can. He likes going down when it's Bill; he likes tasting him, likes the way it makes Bill writhe. Bill's hips strive against his palms and he pushes him down until Bill's butt is flat on the tree skirt. Tom curls his tongue; he plies it with more certitude than the lascivious flick of tongue against lip-ring, which is more promise than follow-through; he works it under Bill's resilient foreskin and licks around for the vital taste of him. All the while soft noises work from Bill's throat, pleasure-sounds, so fervent they border on distress. Tom stretches his lips back and forth until the low whine in Bill's throat lets him know he's close, too close, and that's when Tom pulls off.

"Yes," Bill says, husky and wanting. "Yes, Tom, yes."

Tom flexes Bill's thigh up until he's open, exposed. He runs his fingers over Bill's closed-up little hole, the hottest part of him, and taps the pad of his index finger there. Bill cants his hips and makes the neediest sound yet, and Tom circles that heat with his finger, teases it, dips just barely inside.

"Lube," Bill pants, his restless head rolling to one side, then the other. His cap is askew, the bobble at the end trapped below one shoulder. "Now, ugh. Or I'll tip _you_ over and take it."

Tom grins, quick and fierce, in response to this impassioned declaration. He can't resist teasing Bill a bit more, though, prodding at the heated core of him until Bill begins to open up in spite of himself. Bill groans and swears and calls Tom names, until Tom lowers his head to take Bill's cock between his lips again. He sucks him down as he plies him with fingers, easing each one into the the trembling heat below Bill's balls. When he draws back, keeping his lips over Bill's flesh for as long as possible, he can tell that his beautiful brother is flushed and ready.

"Bill," he says, drawing back and tracing the star on Bill's hip with his other hand. He wants to get up, to hover over him again, to take those full lips.

Bill growls beneath him, tenses, and the world inverts as Tom is laid out flat on his back. "What are you doing?" Tom gasps, flailing and snagging a handful of garland that sheds glittery gold flakes all over them.

"Shut up and take it like a man," Bill tells him, pushing him down onto the tree skirt. He tugs Tom's boxers off and tosses them over his shoulder; they land with a soft jingle on a cluster of bells hanging from a holiday door-knocker adornment.

"The babies will see," Tom frets, suddenly squeamish.

"They've seen us before," Bill turns Tom's own words back against him.

"O-okay," Tom falters, suddenly wanting more than skin on skin. He wants to see the play of those soft lights caressing Bill's face as he moves back and forth.

Bill clambers onto his stomach with the flash of an eager grin. He straightens his cap with one hand, pulling the white trim until it's nearly over his eyebrows, presses a kiss to Tom's nose, then sits back against Tom's cock.

"Yes," the slow hiss leaves Tom. He wraps his hands over Bill's waist and does his best to help, rather than hinder, as Bill leans back and takes Tom's dick into him.

"Oh, mm," Bill moans, and nips down on his own lower lip as he begins to roll his hips in tight, demanding circles.

Tom settles back against the prickly red material and pushes up as Bill sits on his dick and grinds. He tongues at his lip and sweats and purely enjoys everything coursing through him right now. There's enough rum running in his veins to keep him going for hours, or at least, what feels like it. Bill's soft, anxious noises are charging the desire coursing through him as surely as the draw of the tightness and heat pulling Tom's dick in again and again.

Bill's movements grow faster, in time, as he bobs up and down on Tom's dick. His noises get greedier, his taut hip-rolls more erratic. He's really working for it and Tom hasn't come yet. His teeth bite his chapped lip hard enough to threaten a split and Tom's had enough.

"Wha—Tom!" Bill cries protest and fights him as Tom surges up, breaking the hold Bill has on him and tipping him onto the tree skirt.

Bill is half laughing, specks of gilt ornament clinging to his cheeks and neck, and he glows brighter to Tom's eyes than the tree-topper they have yet to excavate from the piles of ornaments from years past. He's perfect and love and Tom's, and Tom proves this by sinking in to claim him again. He brushes his fingers over the brilliance of light that crowns Bill's face, halos his hair, and Tom moves over and into him with a groan.

"That's so...so good," Tom moans, giving him slow, shallow thrusts at first.

"Tomi," Bill whispers, and in those two syllables Tom hears more, and harder, and I love you.

Tom shudders and grasps at Bill's shoulders, pumping into him with increasing fervor. He needs this, he needs Bill; more often than he can have him, but this is how they are. He gathers Bill against him and thrusts into him, the drive of his hips increasing until he's moving against Bill in one continuous rut.

"Gotta come," he gasps. Bill's fingernails scratch at his hips and strong, fine-boned fingers stroke over Tom's ass.

"Come," Bill urges him, and groans deeply, arching up against him, lifting a leg to open himself even more.

"Oh, fuck," Tom says at first, stretching and tugging Bill's head up until he's sharing Bill's air, humid breaths puffing between them. "You first." He's got Bill folded practically in half as he fucks into him now.

He goes harder, angling in and lifting Bill into the sway of his body. Bill gives him a choked scream, head sweeping back, and the silly cap comes off entirely. Release flowers between them, hot and heady, and Tom tips his head back and lets go with a howl. He fucks Bill through their mutual climax and they rock together, coming down from that high and clutching, stroking and panting, embracing with everything within them.

Bill touches Tom's face, strokes braids back away from his neck and bare shoulders. He's wearing a sleepy, sated smile even as Tom is all but crushing him into the tree skirt.

"So good," he croons, and his lips twitch as Tom runs a wondering hand over Bill's face.

"Mm," Tom rumbles, and when he collapses onto his side beside Bill, they trade lazy kisses. The tree lights twinkle above them like the myriad stars in the night.

"It's past midnight, Tomi," Bill purrs beside him.

"Yeah," Tom says, pillowing his head on one bicep. He strokes over Bill's come-spattered belly with his free hand. "Merry Christmas, Bill."

Bill's fingers pinch his side. "And we don't have our tree all the way up yet! It's scandalous, Tom. Come on, get up. Get up," he insists.

Tom groans, and gets up, fetching his boxers in the process. If he's going to do this, he requires more eggnog in his rum.

"One for me, too," Bill calls behind him, and he's giggling softly. When Tom flashes a last glance over his shoulder, his twin is ass-up and rummaging around in the nearest box, naked as the day they were born.

Tom has to groan and persevere. He can have him again later, he consoles himself. When they wake up, he'll have him again when Bill's all rumpled and sleepy and unable to resist before they shower and get ready to face the day with the rest of their family. He whistles softly to the dogs to let them out into the back yard one last time for the night, and goes to assemble the drinks.

They pass tinsel hand over hand and laugh and snap candy canes between their teeth and hang all the trinkets from years past. Dogs tumble around their ankles and play tug of war with leftover garland. It's very late by the time they make their way upstairs hand in hand, though by their internal clocks it's very, very early.

Tom wakes up in the morning drooling onto his pillow with Bill on his back beside him, the horsetail of his black hair fanned out to one side. A dog is curled up on Tom's legs and his Star's head is resting heavily on his bladder. Tom wonders if it was all a dream, thinking with blissful recollection on the sight of Bill moving atop him, then beneath him, scintillating in the yellow-gold flickers cast from the tree above them.

Beside him, Bill's mouth is open but he's not snoring. Tom peels back the covers to get up, dislodging his dog's head from using his bladder for a pillow, and catches a glimpse of fur-trimmed boyshorts. 

He groans and decides that the wisest thing to do is go back to sleep. _After_ he hits the bathroom.


End file.
